


corrupt

by ferrousone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dark Will, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, hello naughty children it's murder time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-12 06:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9060778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferrousone/pseuds/ferrousone
Summary: An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, and Will bends until he breaks.





	1. apéritif

**Author's Note:**

> i'm rewatching hannibal (got the box set and just sat down to watch it) and decided i wanted to reforge canon, replace the tragedy of will getting fucked over by both jack _and_ hannibal with will flipping the script... and oh how the turn tables.... basically, will is kinda like dexter (using his position as an fbi consultant/past police work/empathy to seek out serial killers to kill them and keep the world safe. like batman but less buff and rich) and obviously his biggest fish to fry is the chesapeake ripper, and he kinda clues into hannibal being something bad (not the ripper yet).
> 
> big thank you to the love of my darn life @ maggie for beta'ing this for me........i'm love you???
> 
> idk.... long author note aside, the warnings are implied child abuse, graphic violence, canon typical death for the first episode of s1,

“He’s eating them.”

There is no profound revelation; no epiphany where all of the pieces click into place and form the true picture in his mind’s eye. The design, though cruel and jagged, like the edges of a broken mirror, imitate his idol’s—for lack of a better word—style: _cannibalism_.

This, however, is an act of cannibalism out of love, no matter how twisted and vitriolic it is. The love of the act, though, is lost on his acquaintances. Disgust, confusion, even grim curiosity flash over their faces in turn, and Will neatly catalogues it away into the recesses of his mind.

“No shit, huh?” Is all Katz says, and Will’s lips twitch in turn. Beside her, Price looks unruffled despite his momentary shock, and waves a gloved hand. 

“The ‘meat’,” the disdain carried in that single word sends a sharp jolt of displeasure through him, “is spoiled, like you said, so the antler velvet in the wounds is there to heal it.” Less of a question, and more of a statement, to which Will nods.

“Whoever he is eating them for, by the mere act of consuming these girls, he wants to keep a part of them with him.”

“So he’s obsessively in love with someone?” Zeller pipes up.

“To put it crudely, yes. But this is not a sexual love.”

“Because there’s no saliva or semen found on or _in_ the body,” Katz concludes.

He hums his agreement, choosing instead to subtly flick his eyes to the clock face. Social etiquette dictates he says goodbye, act apologetic about the sudden exit, but he knows in order to keep his appearances up—the frail, lost, socially inept man in need of Jack’s grounding—he must do the opposite.

So he waits, waits for Katz to start bickering with Zeller over _where_ the metal comes from to simply blurt, “I’m late.”

Her attention, and her train of thought, snaps with the abrupt declaration, and a bemused smile crosses her lips. “Lecture?”

A wry smile crosses his lips, this time not forced. “Something like that.”

“Go ahead then, we got this.”

He turns, not even bothering to mutter a curt goodbye to the other two, before bolting from the lab. 

“Strange guy, isn’t he?” His ears prick at that, but whatever they say is lost to the soft hydraulic hiss of the shutting door, and the din of bureaucracy around him.

\--

“Will, this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter and he will be consulting on this case.” 

From where Will is seated, watching the line of the man’s back beneath a beige suit jacket, a sense of _paranoia_ floods him. 

His father had told him that a predator can sense other predators, had beaten the lesson into him many a night until he took matters into his own hands, and _squeezed_ until nothing was left. He had felt it when he had shot that man on the police force, blinking through the searing pain of a knife wound in his shoulder in favour of focusing on the jump of the gun in his hand, the sour scent of gun powder. 

Whatever Doctor Lecter was hiding under a thin layer of high-thread count fabric, bone, and sinew, Will was _ecstatic_ to see. To know. To cradle it in his hands before snuffing the flame of life out.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the man says warmly, the heaviness of his accent distracting Will momentarily, enough to leave him feeling dazed. He blinks it away though, forcing a smile when socially acceptable and remembering to keep eye contact to a minimum. “I read your paper on—”

“The standard monograph on time of death by insect activity, yes.”

The line of his back goes rigid at the interruption, and when he turns his face is carefully blank. “You get that a lot, don’t you?”

“Though the fan base is limited,” he pauses to study Lecter, covering it by taking a sip of his coffee instead. “They are quite avid.”

Lecter smiles, skin bunching around his eyes and lips parting enough for Will to catch the sharpness of his teeth, and takes a seat beside Will. “Well then, consider me one of your apostles.”

“A crude analogy, don’t you think, doctor?”

“Hardly, we tend to follow those we consider to be wise and just, it just so happens to result in a range of rabid devotion to innocent curiosity.”

“And where do you fall on the spectrum?” He asks, parroting Jack.

Lecter’s eyes flash dangerously. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

Will snorts into his cup, and swivels to turn away from the intense scrutiny, and to Jack. “Jack?” He remembers to keep his tone pleading, and voice thin. 

“As you know, we have about twelve different men all claiming responsibility for these abductions, all ruled out as suspects, until this morning. Someone took a photo of Elise Nichols body, shared it with his friends, and Freddie Lounds posted it on TattleCrime this morning.”

“Do we know how she got the photo?” 

Jack scrubs a hand over his face and leans back in his chair. “Judging by how quick she got the photos, we’re guessing she either knows the inside source, or had access to his cellphone to get it.”

“A one night stand,” Will offers, closing the space between them by leaning forward, propping his elbows against Jack’s desk. Beside him, Lecter makes a noise of interest. “She has access to the phone, and it is expected for one to leave before morning comes. That also explains _why_ you’ve gotten so many calls so early in the day.”

“That’s the current theory, yes,” Jack concedes. “The metal on Elise’s body is still being processed, but Katz and company agree with your idea.”

“It isn’t an idea if it’s right.”

Beside him, Hannibal snorts. 

“While that may be the case,” Jack replies, used to Will’s brand of bluntness, “we have to be sure.”

“The time we’re wasting on being sure it is high grade construction steel—which it is—is the time he could be _choosing_ another girl.” The irony of the situation is not lost on him; seeing as how he aims to stop the murders with the killer’s own. 

“If I may,” Hannibal murmurs, drawing their heated staring contest to a heel. “Perhaps while your lab runs tests Will and I should get to know each other, seeing as we will be working together.”

“Now is hardly the time to gossip like a bunch of housewives, Dr. Lecter,” Will says, none-too-kindly. 

Despite the softness of Lecter’s smile, when he leans back in his chair, his eyes are sharp and calculating. “You never know, Will, you might find a fast friend in me yet.”

“Hardly,” he returns the smile; his, however, with no kindness, just a feral display of teeth, predator to predator. “I don’t get along with my psychiatrists.”

“Well good thing I am not _yours_.”

\--

“I hate to say I told you so,” Will starts, eyes tracing over the body artfully displayed before him, “but I told you so.”

Jack says nothing, save for a rough exhale of air and a shouted command to clear out so ‘Graham can do his thing’. 

“There’s no need for that,” Jack pauses, raising a brow. “I know it isn’t him. I know it isn’t the Minnesota Shrike.” 

“How?”

“He wouldn’t break the pattern now, not like this. Not knowing how important it is to find another girl after he failed with Elise. T-This isn’t an act of love either.”

“It’s true,” Zeller agrees. “Judging by the incision, her lungs were most likely removed while she was _alive_.”

“He didn’t want those girls to suffer when he killed them; he _loved_ them. This was nothing more than a butcher getting his pound of flesh from the latest pig to the slaughter.”

“But why would he imitate the Shrike then, Will?” Jack prodded.

Will ground his teeth, knowing the movement would be construed as stress and not one of red-hot anger. The way Jack used him like a bloodhound to get to the truth, with force if necessary, grated on his nerves.

“He provided a negative for me to see the positives.” It was a gift. And the beauty of it was not lost on him. He stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on the girl’s deathly-white clavicle. “We won’t catch him though, this kind of psychopath would’ve left no evidence, and likely won’t kill again in this fashion.”

His eyes carefully flick to Dr. Lecter, who looks steadily, gaze mirroring the careful blankness it had in Jack’s office.

“We have bigger things to worry about,” Jack gestures the two of them to his side, not bothering to wait before taking off in his long, even strides. “The metal matched what you said Will, we need you to check nearby construction sites for pipe-layers, plumbers; any construction workers that work with this kind of stuff.”

“’Metal’ is a little vague, Jack. Do you know the manufacturer of the metal? That will help greatly narrow our search.”

“The report is in my car, grab it on your way out.”

It was as much as a dismissal as any. And ever the obedient dog, he went.

\--

“Is the lack of an address that suspicious to you, Will?”

Will’s eyes stayed resolutely on the road ahead of him.

“It is merely a question, and not even a rude one at that. It hardly garners the silent treatment.”

“I rather not talk to you right now.”

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“Talking leads to you leaping conclusions about my mental state, and I’d rather avoid that.”

“That explanation right there is enough to already have me leaping to one.”

“Shut up.”

The banter between them was almost friendly. It turned his stomach.

“Careful now, your tone almost sounded fond,” Lecter said lightly. At that Will turned, and cursed at the playful glint in his eyes. “Turn here.”

Silence filled the gaps between them, thick and stifling, like molasses. 

“What will you do if you find him?”

_If_. That had the cogs turning in his head. “Question him. That is what you usually do with suspects.”

“Your sarcasm is not lost on me. Nor is it appreciated.”

“It isn’t meant to,” he replied easily, tone even.

In his periphery, he saw Lecter’s mouth thin. He could practically hear his father’s drawl in his ear then, warning him of prodding the slumbering beast.

He pulled smoothly into the Hobbs’ driveway, shutting the engine off and thumbing over his gun in a practiced motion. “Do you mind calling Jack for me? Just in case.”

Lecter nodded, already reaching for his phone. “Just in case.”

\--

He didn’t have to fake his shock when Hobbs’ wife stumbled from their house, throat slit and gurgling on her blood; nor the shake in his body as he pressed clammy hands to her throat. From an outsider’s perspective, it would look as if he was trying to save her, not coat his fingers in the sticky-warmth of her blood as it spilled from her.

She knew, though, judging by the bulging of her eyes as she felt his fingers _dig_ into the torn skin of her throat, chasing after the now sluggish arterial spray. 

“He’s inside, isn’t he?”

The widening of her eyes was enough of a tell for him, and he left her to die on her porch, glassy-eyed and gasping, in search of bigger, meaner prey.

He drew his gun, already well practiced in the mistake of underestimating his prey. Dimly, he was upset it came to this. He was hoping to take his time with this one; take him apart just like he did to boat motors, understand what makes them tick. 

With a boot planted firmly beside the doorknob, he kicked in, eyes sweeping across the blood-covered entryway.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs, this is the FBI, you’re under arrest.”

He always did like saying that.

He did a sweep of the entryway, before following the blood to the kitchen. Hobbs had his daughter pressed to his front, one hand had a knife pressed to the column of her throat while the other held her fast around her waist. 

“Put the knife down.”

Hobbs’ eyes were wild, and when they met Will’s, there was a moment of understanding, before fear flooded them. With a quick jerk, the knife tore across her throat, and Will followed up with a single bullet to his shoulder. 

The girl fell, forgotten while the thrill of the hunt leeched into his bones, sending his breathing into overdrive. His mind always was at this clearest in these moments, when he burned and salted the earth they walked on, righting their wrongs with their own blood. 

The gun jumped back into his hand, familiar and welcome, as he unloaded it into Hobbs, watching the blood bloom against the fabric of his shirt. The acrid smell of gunpowder filtered in just as the rush of adrenaline tapered off at the sight of Hobbs slumping against his counter.

“See?” The man muttered, eyes wild and frantic as they searched his face.

“Yes.” Will smiled, one hand clasped over the flow of blood coming from the girl’s neck, firm and practiced. “And I’m not impressed with it. Quite sloppy, amateurish work, really. I expected better.”

Hobbs blinked, once, twice, before he stilled, breathing and all.

At the sound of steps behind him, he fixed his mask back into place. He took great heaving breaths, allowing the trembling he consciously suppressed to surface.

Hannibal pressed by him, warm and steady, moving Will’s hands off to press his own there.

“EMT’s are on their way, as is Jack.” Will said nothing, save for letting out a noise like a wounded, cornered animal. “You did the right thing. You had no choice.”

He nodded shakily, allowing Hannibal and his 'expertise' to take over while he sat back, watching the carnage he unleashed upon Hobbs. Outside, the shrill cry of sirens could be heard, loud and overbearing, but they were drowned out as the beast inside him purred.


	2. amuse-bouche

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wanna deeply apologise for the big ol' delay on this update. life hit me with retail hours + a head cold + general nonsense. anyways here it is
> 
> chapter warnings are for graphic descriptions of violence, implied alcoholism/alcohol use, talk of meds, injury, etc. yay.
> 
> big thanks to maggie i love u so much thank u for being my rock

Jack, after seeing Will had been unharmed, cycled through a dizzying array of emotions. The yelling, however, did not start until after Will had locked the car door and did up his seatbelt.

“Do you have any idea how this looks for me, Will? One shot we could’ve understood, he cut his daughter’s throat open for fuck’s sake. But a whole clip? Ten shots?!”

Will didn’t know what would explode first, the vein on Jack’s forehead or his eardrum. 

“Don’t look away from me, Graham. Do you even know the mountain of paperwork will have to happen now?” Jack sighed, taking a moment from his screaming to slam a clenched fist on the horn, making him jump. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he started, voice low. “I am going to take you back to Quantico and we are going to swab every square inch of you and take your statement. And then you’re going home, cleaning up, and seeing Dr. Lecter for a psych eval.”

“I’m guessing the last part is mandatory,” he muttered, rubbing his bloody, sticky fingers together. 

“God help me,” Jack muttered, shoving his keys into the ignition and tearing off Hobbs’ driveway. “Of course it is mandatory. You need to be cleared for fieldwork again, especially after this little display.”

“You didn’t have me cleared before, so why _now_. What’s the real reason, Jack? Are you looking to see if I have peace of mind, or to just secure yours?”

Jack said nothing, eyes resolutely on the road. That was answer enough for him.

 

\--

 

“I hear you gave Jack the ‘all clear, he isn’t crazy’ papers the other day.”

From where Hannibal is prowling below him, he lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “Interesting phrasing you have there.”

“For an equally interesting decision.” Will pauses, leaning against the railing, and briefly wonders what would happen were he to jump over and onto Lecter’s back, if that were enough to draw the monster below the murky depths to the surface.

“It is not an interesting decision, quite boring really.” Lecter picks an invisible spot of dust off his prim suit. “You pose no threat to yourself or others, unless they are the late Mr. Hobbs.”

“Thankfully I won’t have to see him again in this life, though the next is another question.”

“You believe you will be sent to the same place as Hobbs when you die?”

“You mean Hell?” Will pretends to mull it over, choosing to chew his thumb to draw the moment out. “Why else would he be following my every waking moment?”

Ah. Will can practically _see_ the light in Lecter’s eyes from here. Got him.

“You see Mr. Hobbs?” His tone is strictly clinical, and Will would commend him for his effort, were it not for the reedy edge to it.

“See is a very generous word. It’s more like plagued.”

“Does he do anything besides follow and watch you?”

“One time he did my laundry,” Will confides, enjoying the way Lecter’s brows pinch in consternation. 

“He plagues you because you feel guilty for your actions,” Lecter offers. “You feel guilty for leaving Abigail fatherless just like you were in your youth. Another child left adrift in the system.”

“Not really in the system now, she is a legal adult. And I don’t feel guilty for killing Hobbs; at least, not the act itself.”

The wording is boldface, obvious to someone even as willingly-dense as Jack. Lecter nods, walking over to his desk to retrieve his book and scribble down whatever fantastic insight he just had.

“You feel guilty for enjoying it.”

The sentence hangs heavy between them, and just for show, Will lets out a shaky breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yes.”

Hannibal is about to say something, but is interrupted by the baritone chirp of his grandfather clock. “I’m sorry, Will. This will have to wait until our next appointment.”

Will descends the ladder with careful steps, allowing himself to brush past closer-than-acceptable by Lecter. “Good night, Doctor Lecter.”

Hannibal tilts his head to one side, as if he were studying a specimen under a microscope. “Good night, Will.”

 

\--

 

He knows he is being watched. The hairs on his neck stand up before he even takes his first, purposely misaligned shot. The lack of accuracy doesn’t bother him, not with the satisfying recoil echoing through the hollow spaces of his mind and body.

When he’s done, he removes his safety gear, and turns to meet his watcher’s gaze.

“I’m pretty sure firearm accuracy isn’t a prerequisite for teaching.” Beverly grins at him, removing her own comically large ear protectors. 

“Been in the field before,” is all he offers. 

“Now you’re back in the saddle. Ish.”

“Ish,” he concedes. “It took me ten shots to drop Hobbs.” He decides to leave out the ‘because I liked it’, choosing instead to carefully remove the body chart from its hanging. 

“Y’know,” she says, leaning against the wall of his shooting cubicle, “Zeller wanted to give you the bullets pulled out of Hobbs in an acrylic case.”

Will blinks at her, before scrunching his face up. “I wouldn’t like that.”

“I know, I told him that.” She shrugs at that. “I suggested one of those clacking, swinging ball things.”

“That would’ve been funny,”

She grins, and Will returns it, in his own, jagged sort of way, before turning to return to shooting. He does a great show of making it look hard, like the recoil is something his body is not used to, something that isn’t welcome.

“You’re a Weaver. I took you for an isosceles guy.”

“I have a rotator cuff issue so I have to use the Weaver stance.”

She places a hand on him then, and lets out a hiss—whether because of him or _for_ him, he doesn’t know. 

“You’re tight.”

“Thank you?” Beverly lets out a laugh at that, before sliding her other hand to his elbows, subtly adjusting his stance with warm hands.

He rolls his eyes, glad she can’t see it from she is behind him, before carefully lining up each shot.

When he’s done, fixing his flattened curls with a clammy hand, she traces each shot with a steady finger. “You didn’t come down here to teach me how to shoot.”

“Jack sent me down here to find out what you know about gardening.”

 

\--

 

There was a beauty in the way he killed them, in how he used their bodies to cultivate other life. A part of Will was fascinated with the idea, the painstaking amount of love and preparation put into these preparations—not for the victims themselves (they were nothing more than glorified flower beds from which true life would spring) but for the fungus that sprouted from their rotting bodies.

So it was startling when one of them reached out and grasped his wrist, disturbing the earth and blossoming fungi around him, begging for help. 

“You know,” Hannibal said, watching as Will leaned against his car and swallowed his coffee in great gulps, “I’ve never seen something like this before.”

“You’re a psychiatrist, Dr. Lecter, if you had seen something like this in your practice I would be worried.”

He smiled, straightening his lush scarf where it lay against an equally luxurious overcoat. “I was a surgeon at John Hopkins before.”

“Once again,” Will stated with a flourish of his free hand, “it’d be odd if you saw something like this. Stab wounds, gun shots, maybe the occasional gutting, those are all _banal_.” Artless, tasteless, much too juvenile for his tastes. “This is… this is something else entirely.”

Hannibal’s smile dropped into his usual carefully blank stare, and he tilted his head. “What do you see?”

“A lot of psychosis, a background in pharmaceutical science, and a healthy amount of dedication to his cause.”

“Does it resonate with you?”

Will blinked at that. “Pardon me?”

“Do you feel a sense of kinship to this killer? You have taken on the role of father, just as Hobbs was, with Abigail, and I am curious as to how you will shape your connection with this killer.” Hannibal brushed a thumb of his lips. “You absorb them. Become them.”

“We are not having this conversation, right now, or ever.”

“It is merely a question that I must ask you, as I am your psychiatrist.”

“You are not my psychiatrist,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous.

“Not officially, yes, but that may change.”

“It won’t.”

Hannibal said nothing, merely smiling that characteristic lazy, serene way of his. “Goodbye Will. Shall I see you tonight at Abigail’s hospital room?”

Will bristled, lips thinning, before he shrugged on his coat rough enough to send a twinge of pain shooting in his shoulder. “Goodbye Doctor Lecter.”

At the way the doctor practically _preened_ at his tone, he turned and left. Thankful, at least, he had said goodbye. He rather not be rude.

 

\--

 

At seven on the dot, Hannibal opens his door to him. Prim and proper as usual, a self-satisfied smile gracing his features, he ushers in Will, taking from him his coat, fingers brushing over the cheap cotton of his shirt with something akin to disgust on his features.

“So tell me, Will,” Hannibal starts, circling his desk like a vulture would weakening prey. “What has you so on edge today?”

“Just today?” A small smile at that, and a tilt of the head. Like Will is nothing more than a newly discovered creature, just his to study. It vanishes, however, when Will slaps down his ‘sanity slip’ as Jack had called it. “This may have been premature.”

“What did you see? Out in the field.”

“Hobbs.” The look that flashes in Lecter’s eyes is enough to send Will into a premature victory; he has the doctor. Hook, line, and sinker.

“An association?”

“A hallucination.” Will runs a hand over his curls, sending them into further disarray. “As, you know, I _absorb_ them.”

“Where did you see him?”

“In the graves of those other people.”

“I take it you didn’t tell Jack.”

Will snorts, moves away from the prying gaze of his _not_ -psychiatrist to wander over to one of the many walls of books and rub his fingertips over the spines. “If I told him I would be locked away, most likely enjoying a nice and complimentary new jacket. I hear white is in these days.”

“It’s simply stress, not worth reporting,” is all Hannibal says, choosing to ignore Will’s remarks in order to patch together what little sanity he believes Will still has. “You displaced the victim of another killer’s crime with what could arguably be considered your victim.”

Will turns at that, meeting Lecter’s eyes before sending his gaze skittering away amongst the oppressive, dark office. “I don’t consider him my victim.”

“What do you consider him?”

 _A mistake, one to be wiped away._ “Dead.”

“Is it harder imagining the thrill someone else feels killing, now that you’ve done it yourself?”

Will wants to laugh at that; he wants to tear away this false image he has created of himself and lay it bare and exposed to the man—no, the _monster_ —before him. Wants to prostrate himself at his feet and have a sense of kinship to flow through them, before inevitably absorbing him into himself. Another neat addition to the network of killer’s among the synapses and grey matter. Instead, Will just huffs, fighting the smile that threatens to break out on his face into a more acceptable frown. 

“Let’s just focus on the case, shall we?” He says instead, noting the way the light behind Lecter’s eyes snuffs out, and Will’s hands _ache_ to wrap around his neck and watch it leave again.

 

\--

 

The fluorescent lights are no more palatable underground than they are above it, as the BAU has taught him. He winces, ignoring the pulse of a hangover at his temples in favour of watching Katz flick through the autopsy reports with pursed lips.

“Dextrose in all the catheters. He probably used some kind of dialysis or peristaltic to pump fluids after the circulatory system breaks down.”

“So he was force-feeding them sugar water,” Price remarks, twirling a scalpel between his fingers. “You know who loves sugar water? Mushrooms. They crave it. See—“ 

Zeller snatches it from him, brows drawn together, interrupting his train of thought. “Recovering alcoholics, too, they crave it too. No offence.”

Price snorts at that. “Oh, I’m not recovering.”

Will blinks, ignoring the amused look Katz shoots his way. “Diabetics have compromised endocrine systems as well. They all died of kidney failure too. Death by diabetic ketoacidosis.”

Katz smiles, eyes glittering with something uncomfortably close to awe. “Do we know that they are?”

“They are, he induces them into a coma and buries them.”

“But how does he induce them, then?”

“He changes their medication,” Will shrugs, eyes meeting Katz’s. “He’s most likely a pharmacist, maybe a doctor or someone else in medical services.”

“So he feed them the water so they soak it up to feed the mushrooms,” Price adds.

“And we dug up his garden,” Zeller sighs.

“So he’s gonna want to grow a new one.”

Will ignores the twin looks of horrors on their face in favour of taking his leave.

“So the plot thickens,” Katz sighs.

“So does soil with the presence of fungus. At least I assume so, I’m not a botanist after all,” Price mutters.

 

\--

 

Alana’s voice, soft and melodic, trickles into his ear. It is something Will doesn’t find grating, much to his surprise, more soothing and motherly.

“What are you doing?” He rasps, displacing the thin cotton of her sweater draped over him to sit up and run a hand through his hair.

“Reading,” she smiles, more a crooked twist of lips than anything. “Is that so foreign to you?”

“To someone who could be a killer.”

“Innocent until proven guilty.”

Will yawns, ignoring the way her smile softens at the sight. “Jack sent you?”

“Is it so hard to believe that people care about you?”

“We’ve never even been alone in a room together. So yes.”

“Well I do,” she turns to him then, crossing her legs and shutting the book in her lap. “And judging by your face you expect me to launch into some crime-related talk, don’t you?”

“Something like that,” he nods, pressing the material of her sweater to his lips. “I rather just hear you read. It was nice.”

“She’s a success for you, isn’t she? Abigail Hobbs.”

“She doesn’t really look like success. Unless you call a ventilator and a medically induced coma the spitting image of it.”

“Don’t feel sorry for yourself. You saved someone, Will, isn’t that enough?”

He shrugs, refusing to let his mind linger on the lives he has taken with his own calloused hands that led to the greater good. “I guess it is.”

“Good, now settle in, I’m just about to get back to the part where she raises peacocks.”

 

\--

 

“Stammets knows about Abigail.”

His blood runs cold, whether at the fear in Jack’s own voice or the thought something of _his_ would be hurt by hands other than his own. He swipes to end the call, runs a hand through his hair, and smiles. 

Another lamb to the slaughter, then.

He thumbs his gun where it sits at his hip, and takes his time to travel to her room, knowing it’d be empty. He rather not have witnesses for what he is about to do, whether he spares Stammets or otherwise, they make things messy. And for all his isms, none involve lose ends and unnecessary mess.

When he descends the stairs, he feels more alive than ever knowing the hunt is drawing near. He presses the door open, gun a familiar weight in his hands, and levels it at shoulder height and fires—cameras, he decides in the end, would be his undoing—the clawing at his skull and the vice grip of his heart leaves with it.

He crouches then, meeting Stammet’s pain-muddled gaze with his own, and smiles. “What were you going to do with her?”

“We all evolved from mycelium, I’m simply—“

“I’d rather you spare me the biology lesson.”

Stammets’ lips thin, and he shakes his head. “I know you are reaching for her. Abigail Hobbs.” He nods, eyes trailing tiredly over to study the dull seafoam green paint of the walls. Will tuts, and Stammets’ attention goes back to him. “You should’ve let me plant her. You would be able to finally connect with her, she’d finally reach back.”

Will tilts his head, parroting Hannibal, and nods. How dull, he thinks, watching as Stammets slips from consciousness, how dull it all is.

 

\--

 

“Who did you see when you shot Eldon Stammets?” Hannibal asked, the doctor’s ham-fisted attempt to pigeonhole him back into the field is not lost on Will.

“I didn’t see Hobbs,” Will mutters, growing more and more agitated with him by the minute.

“It is not Hobbs haunting you then, but the inevitability of a man existing that is so bad that killing him feels good.”

He decides to reward the doctor, one must stroke his ego to keep him from peering too hard after all. “Killing him felt just.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” the self-satisfied tone is there again. Will envies Gogh, wishing to shear off his own ear in this moment as well. “To prove that sprig of zest you felt came from not killing Hobbs, but saving Abigail.”

“There was no ‘zest’ when I shot Stammets.”

“Because you didn’t kill him.”

Will grins before carefully blanking his face to turn to the doctor. “I thought about it. I’m still not entirely sure that was my intention when I pulled the trigger.”

Hannibal nods, and Will decides to tune out whatever long-winded and boring monologue Hannibal delivers then, watching the way his mouth shapes the words and spits them out at his feet, like a machine churning out the appropriate end results.

“Killing must feel good to God too, after all he does it all the time. And we are created in His image.” Will sighs, taking a seat and waiting until Hannibal does the same. A simple mirroring of his posture in an attempt to relate. “He dropped a church roof on thirty-four of his worshipers last Wednesday in Texas while they sang a hymn.”

“And did God feel good about that?” Will muses.

“He felt powerful,” Hannibal pauses then, leaning forward. “But you are not God, you are something else entirely.”

Will nods. “If only you knew.”

“I will, in time.”


	3. potage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was shorter than i would've liked, but i am honestly surprised that i even managed to churn this out at all (work/stress/life in general is kicking my fucking ass). once again thanks to maggie for reading this over for me and whipping me into shape, i owe her everything.
> 
> cw for this chapter include graphic depictions of violence, a heavy amount of snark, as well as more implied child abuse. please heed these warnings.

Sleep, though fleeting and plagued with hazy afterimages of the lives he took, was a blessed thing. His father’s hypervigilance and heavy-handed parenting led to Will’s formative years to be sleep-deprived, a trait he carried over into adulthood. 

He huffed a breath, shutting his eyes against the razor-sharp rays of light filtering through his thin drapes; around him, his pack heaved each breath like a singular unit, fur clinging to his sweat damp skin. 

Blindly, he fumbled on his nightstand for his bulk container of Aspirin, sending a silent blessing up to those at Costco who decided to stock them. He swallowed them dry, wincing at the chalkiness that clung to his tongue and teeth. 

Winston woofed softly, legs kicking in his sleep and jamming into Will’s side. “Easy, boy,” Will soothed, rubbing a sweat-slick hand over his fur. 

As if on cue, his phone let out a shrill ring, vibrating from where it lay beside his glasses. With a sigh, he grabbed it, cracking an eye open to study the caller ID displayed in tiny neon letters. _Bloom_ it read, and Will took a steadying breath, urging the beast that rose up to settle.

“Alana, what a pleasant surprise,” he murmured, trying to keep his tone light and friendly.

“Will, I need you to open the front door.”

“Uh, why?”

“I have news.”

“Alright, give me a second.” He didn’t bother to say goodbye as he snapped his phone shut, and heaved his legs over the edge, careful to miss the dog that was snoozing at the side. 

He tiptoed out of his room, not even bothering to put anything over his boxers and sweat-slick shirt. He sniffed the air, crinkling his nose at the sour scent of himself, and stripped his shirt off, tossing it without care behind him.

“Sometime before noon would be nice,” Alana teased, voice muffled by the heavy wood of his door. Will rolled his eyes in response, safe in the knowledge she could not see it.

With careful hands, he undid the locks and wrenched it open, taken a vicious satisfaction in the way Alana jerked back in surprise at the intrusion, as well as his appearance. A part of him hoped the blush that rose on her face was part of his imagination, but judging by the way her eyes subtly trailed over his middle, it wasn’t.

“The news, Alana,” he reminded gently, smirking at the way she jerked.

“Ah, uh, right, uh, Abigail’s awake.” 

“And you want me to go see her?”

“Not necessarily.” She winced at the look on his face. “Jack sent me.”

“So, Jack wants me to see her,” he parsed, any forced amusement gone.

“He does, yes,” she nodded, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be doing the questioning.”

“So it’s a questioning now? Does that mean Jack subscribes to my theory of her being her father’s accomplice?”

“Despite my saying otherwise, yes.”

“And why should I not question her? It was my theory after all.”

“I fear it would be quite traumatising for her to be questioned about her being an accessory to murder by the man that murdered her father,” she said bluntly.

Will nodded, a jab of warmth filling his stomach at the sight of her like this. He might’ve gotten along with her better if she was always this direct and assertive; a large part of him liked that in a partner. “Fair enough. But I doubt you drove all the way over here just to tell me this. So I am guessing I am at least going to press my ear to the door and hear everything.”

Her features softened and she nodded. “Yes, something like that, but a lot less like a child sneaking down on Christmas Eve to catch a glimpse of Santa, and more of you being there in a federal capacity.”

“I’ll get dressed, you’re welcome to come in and make yourself at home,” he extended an arm out before he turned with a flourish, tracing his steps back to his room.

He knew then that the choked noise she made when he bent to retrieve his shirt wasn’t his imagination.

 

\--

 

“Now, I don’t want you to get mad at me, but I didn’t tell you Hannibal was coming.”

Will choked on his coffee, sending rivulets of it spilling down his chin and into his beard, before he collected himself. “Why would I get mad at you?”

Alana scoffed, sipping her own overly complex frappuccino with all the regality of a queen regarding her court. “Just last week you looked like you were about to launch yourself over a desk and strangle him.”

“You were never in the same room with us,” Will reminded blandly, swiping a thumb over his beard and sucking the coffee off. Alana made a vaguely disgusted noise at the display.

“Jack told me.”

“Of course,” Will sighed, scrubbing his coffee-stained hand over his face. “I’m not surprised.”

Alana opened her mouth to answer, eyebrows drawing together in confusion, but was interrupted by the sight of Freddie standing next to Hannibal, whose face was drawn in anger.

“Are you kidding me?” Alana hissed, eyes narrowed. 

“This is definitely more of a surprise than Hannibal seeing me,” Will murmured, a vicious glee settling at the base of his spine at the sight of Hannibal’s careful human suit peeled back and exposing the endless darkness beneath.

“This isn’t the time to crack jokes, Will! This is a serious breach of privacy. How did she even know Abigail was out of a coma?”

Will shrugged, his interest taken by the way Hannibal’s eyes flashed dangerously and the way his lips curled around each word; the slight showing of his canine teeth was no accident, everything Hannibal did was for a reason, meticulously prepared and packaged for consumption by the masses. 

“Should we intervene? Or watch how this plays out.” The question was more to himself than to Alana, but it seemed to spark the woman into motion regardless.

Will watched transfixed at the change in Hannibal’s posture and demeanor; it was like watching a bird fix its ruffled feathers back into place. It had his teeth on edge, and his control dancing on a thin string. It was then that Hannibal’s eyes flicked up over Freddie’s head to lock eyes with him, and he smiled, albeit strained.

“Will,” he all but purred, smoothing a hand over his coat and ignoring the squabbling of Alana and Freddie a few feet away from him. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Wish I could say the same about you,” he drawled, taking slow and easy steps over to where Lecter stood. 

“As unflappable as ever, I see.”

“One of us has to be considering you are always bursting with emotion.”

Hannibal let out a sharp laugh, before shaking his head. Will marveled at how not a hair fell out of place. “Enough of your flattery, I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Will raised a brow at that. “Such as?”

“The awakening of a possible murdered, as well as the presence of Ms. Lounds.”

“Sadly I cannot accompany you to the questioning, I was told my presence might be, uh,” Will sniffed. “Traumatising.”

“Of course. Her psyche is fragile, and the presence of her father’s murderer may upset her further.” 

“You too?”

“I am a psychiatrist, Will, and it is in my best interest for her to be of sound mental health.”

“As sound as you could be considering her position,” Will grumbled. “I wasn’t necessarily implying she herself did the killing. More of her being a lure. If you looked at Hobbs no girl would want to get near him, especially an underage one. Maybe she did partake in the killing too, but I haven’t had enough time with her to flesh it out yet.”

“Interesting choice of words. I’ll take that into consideration for when I speak to her,” Hannibal smiled warmly, tone full of false assurance. “I do have a task for you, and judging by the shaking in Alana’s fist I would think she would agree.”

Will turned at that, observing the angry flush high on her cheekbones as she whispered venom into Freddie’s ear. The woman didn’t even have the good nature to look cowed, instead sporting a smirk. “I’m guessing you want me to deal with her?”

“If you’d please. I would also recommend calling for security if need be, but judging how she made it this far without being stopped that might be a fruitless endeavor.”

Will nodded, and sipped at his now lukewarm coffee. “I’ll consider it.”

Hannibal bowed his head, before placing a soft hand on the small of Alana’s back. “We should go see Abigail now, she must be eager to have company.”

Alana nodded, moving away from Freddie to lean into Lecter’s touch. Will narrowed his eyes at the blatant display but said nothing. “Of course, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

Will grit his teeth as he watched them leave, Hannibal’s hand still firmly in place on Alana’s back, and the bastard even had it in him to turn and smile at Will before the door shut, cutting off his view of them.

“Lover’s spat?” Freddie asked, sidling up to Will close enough for him to get a whiff of her cloying perfume.

“I should be asking you the same thing. Turns out your information isn’t reliable as you thought.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She asked, eyes wide and doe-like. In that moment, Will wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around her dainty little throat and _squeeze_ till they bugged out. 

“I know you have someone on the inside feeding you this information. Someone close to Jack and this case. What they didn’t account for is the fact that we were here to intercept you.”

She grinned then, shrugging her shoulders. “To intercept what, Will? My nefarious and evil schemes to question a possible killer? You admitted yourself, you think she’s part of it too. And that’s what I want in on.”

“That doesn’t matter, I am a government official working a federal case, not some over-primped journalist with, quite frankly, illegal information considering this is an active case.”

“Drama sells, Will,” she stated matter-of-factly, not even batting an eye at his accusations. “You’ll see that one day. Especially at the rate your mental stability is deteriorating. Isn’t it bad to have someone who feels murdering someone is a just and exciting as a federal agent?”

Will’s ears filled with white noise, and the heavy beating of his heart against his ribs. He swallowed down the taste of iron on his tongue, struggling to banish the image of him rending her apart behind his eyelids. “It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

She grinned, eyes flashing with fear. “That’s the Graham I know. Pleasure speaking to you, Will.”

 

\--

 

“So my seeing her in her hospital room is considered traumatising, but this isn’t?” Will asked, noting with distaste the writing on the garage. 

The black paint oozed down in thick rivulets, collecting at the base of the driveway. Hannibal looked on as impassive as ever, while Alana tried her best to shield Abigail from it.

“It is merely a method to recall memory, sometimes you need the trigger to be there to enable a more vivid response.” Hannibal murmured.

“So I am a glorified version of using scent to trigger memory?” At the unamused look on Alana’s face he shrugged. 

“It might be difficult for you to remember, but just try your best. We’re here for you.” Alana soothed, running a hand down the girl’s arm as they ascended the steps. 

Will hung back with Hannibal in tow, watching him from his periphery. “You’re oddly quiet. Did something happen in that hospital room?”

“What do you mean by quiet, Will?”

“Well, Dr. Lecter,” Will stated pointedly, “you are usually talking to me about some religious allusion that explains the deeper psychiatric meaning of her returning her a la prodigal son.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” Hannibal murmured, choosing to ignore the barbed comments.

“Louisiana Creole,” Will corrected. 

Hannibal merely nodded, hot on his heels as they followed Alana and Abigail into the house. They were standing in Hobb’s kitchen, ignoring the now-clean linoleum floor in favour of coaxing Abigail into remembering that day.

Abigail’s face was scrunched up in concentration, and she raised a pale hand to press against the bandage at her throat. “I-I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember daddy got a phone call that morning.”

“Why did that stand out to you?” Alana asked, voice soft as if she were dealing with a startled animal; judging by Abigail’s body language, she was.

“Daddy usually never got phone calls from men. The site supervisors are all women.” She shrugged, her free hand toying with the sleeve of her hospital-issued sweater. “He sounded scary too. Not as scary as what happened after but…” 

That sparked Will’s interest; if he could just get the phone records he could probably even start piecing together that day, catch Hobbs up and whoever his accomplice on the phone was. 

“That was great, Abigail. You remembered a lot to help us. Thank you.”

Abigail merely nodded, and turned away from Alana. “I want to leave now if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Hannibal eased himself in to the conversation and Abigail’s line of sight. “Where would you like to go?”

From where Will stood, he watched the tips of her ears go pink. “I guess I want to try the drink Alana had in the hospital room. It smelt really good.”

Alana grinned, shoving her hands in her coat pocket. “Whatever you want.”

 

\--

 

Life, as he would find, did not allow things to go smoothly. After promptly leaving the house and being harassed by two of Abigail’s friends, Will was unceremoniously dropped off at his house in Wolf Trap without as much as a parting glance from Hannibal.

Deep down, beneath the embers of hatred he fanned for Lecter, the obvious rejection stung, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. He wondered if it was Hannibal who was just as annoyed with him; finding the cruel streak of his to be both remarkably dull and grounds to turn his ire on _him_. 

A wet nose pressed against his hand, startling him from his thoughts. He looked down to find Winston whining at him from where he was blocking his pack’s retreat into his large yard. He sighed, bending over to run a hand over the soft fur of his neck before moving aside to let them all spill out onto the yard and take off in different directions.

The phone call Abigail had mentioned stood out in his mind, and he fumbled for his cell. He flicked it open, ignoring the voice of Beverly in his head that reminded him of how dramatic he was for always clacking it open and shut (“Seriously, Will,” she had murmured, nose pressed into his shoulder. “It’s like in those horrible 2000’s movies where the bitchy girl just clacks it shut after hearing how the new girl stole her boyfriend.”). 

“Katz, it’s Graham.” 

“You know I have caller ID, right?” She mused. “How can I help you? Got boy troubles?”

“Yes, actually.”

At that Katz let out a soft exhale, before her hand poorly covered mouthpiece. “Told you he’s into dudes! You all owe me fifty bucks.” There was a chorus of groans, before she moved her hand and placed the phone back by her ear. “Need advice on what to wear? Or maybe help finding a last minute reservation?”

“It’s about Hobbs actually. Abigail said he had a phone call the morning we caught him, and I was wondering if you could look into his phone records for me, maybe see who exactly called him.”

“You could’ve opened with that instead of getting my hopes up.” She muttered, and Will didn’t bother fighting back his smile. “But you do know I don’t do that sort of stuff, right? Why not ask Jack for it?”

He sighed. “You are the only person I can go to with this.” A pause. “The only person I trust to do this for me.”

“You drive a hard bargain Graham, but I’ll do it.”

“But please keep it as discreet as possible.”

“How come? If it’s a theory you have Jack will find out in the end.”

He pursed his lips at that and shook his head despite knowing she couldn’t see it. “Just, do this for me, please?”

There was a line of static, before a notable exhale. “Fine, but you definitely owe me for this.”

“Of course, anything you want.”

“Good, ‘cause I’m thinking foot rubs, seven layer dip, and football.”

Will let out a groan at that. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Remember Will,” he heard as he pulled his phone away, “clack it shut like those mean girls!”

 

\--

 

“It’s okay,” he soothed, cupping her face with a shaking hand. “Daddy’s here.” 

Beneath him, Abigail looked pale and drawn, skin slick with a layer of sweat. “S-Stop, please, dad.”

“I won’t hurt you, I never would, you know that.” He intoned, fingers threading through her dark hair and _tugging_. Her eyes went liquid with unshed tears and she let out a low whimper. “Stop making me angry. Stop _looking_ at me.”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die like mom did,” she cried, pawing at his iron grip on her hair. 

With his other hand, he reached for a hunting knife, before drawing the honed edge over the column of her throat. “It’s okay, Abby, daddy’s here. Let go.”

Blood pooled around them, staining both of them red as she sobbed against him; the spray from her neck painted him a pretty picture, and he licked her blood from his hand. “Please,” she wheezed, releasing the grip on his hand to come to her throat, “save me.”

 

\--

 

“Everything alright?” Hannibal asked, voice dripping with concern. “Your mind seems to be elsewhere.”

“You could say that,” he muttered, taking in the scene of Abigail’s friend—Marissa, his mind supplied absently—mounted before him. “It’s safe to say anyone would rather be elsewhere than here.”

“Naturally. Not all are as accustomed with death as you are.” The implied ‘we’ had a cold spike of thrill zinging up spine. It seems Hannibal was playing coy too.

“Not only that, but this is not the work of Hobbs or Abigail. This is most likely our copycat from before.”

“Why would he strike again?”

“Something angered him; this is no act of love or cold act of ruthlessness we saw in Hobbs and his previous kill. There is emotion in this one. He lacked control. Something happened to him that set him off.”

Hannibal nodded. “A provocation?”

Will scrunched up his nose, and shook his head. “He feels—felt—betrayed by her. He probably knew she was going to be one of Hobbs’ victims and decided to do what Hobbs couldn’t. Minus the cannibalism of course.” He paused, and something in him just _clicked_. “The man from yesterday, what was his name?”

“Nick Boyles?” 

“I-I think it’s him.” A soft sob startled him, and he whipped around to where Abigail stood, shielded by Jack’s bulk. “You should probably attend to that,” he muttered offhandedly, flapping a hand in her direction. It was as much of a dismissal as any, and Hannibal’s lips thinned.

“Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow at seven then?”

“It’s a date,” he said without thinking, eyes already glazed over in thought. He missed the smile on Hannibal’s lips and the fond look in his eyes as he walked away.

 

\--

 

He toed off his shoes and sighed, inhaling the familiar scent of dog and his spiced shampoo, before allowing his posture to drop and curling in on himself. His answering machine flashed red, and his stomach dropped at the sight. 

Inching forward, his fingers grazed the playback button, before he resolutely pressed it.

“Hey Will, it’s Bev,” she started, voice cheery and light. “I got the information you wanted—the phone records, just in case you forgot—and it doesn’t look like anything is really out of the ordinary that day. He received a call from the construction site, but it isn’t abnormal for that to happen considering her, y’know works there. I don’t know how that’ll help you in any way, but I’m glad to be of service. I do expect you to deliver on the football night, though, say sometime next week?”

There was a shrill beep signalling the end of the message, and Will stood stock still, hands clenched at his side and almost pressed against his door. His heart pumped weakly against his chest, mind reeling over who the fuck could have even been there that day in the office. Around that time it had only really been Hannibal, him, and the site coordinator.

He swallowed thickly, saliva catching in his bone-dry throat. Hannibal. Of course it was. He shook his head and grinned, the movement uncomfortably pulling at his facial muscles. Beside him, Buster whimpered at the look on Will’s face; the static expression of pure mania.

He licked his lips before trailing his tongue along each tooth, almost like a dog tearing into its still-warm meal, and let out a low laugh. 

“Got you.”


	4. coquilles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to put up btw, it was a mixture of a lot of writing to cover + writing for my other fic + life in general slowing the posting down. 
> 
> cw's for this chapter include: emetophobia, hanging, suicide, violence, etc. so please heed these tags!
> 
> my beta - the wonderful and lovely mags - is currently busy so this chapter for the time being will be **unbeta'd** , i'll update it with any fixings soon! i promise. for the time being just bear w me and my typos and stuff! (also, be a pal and point them out to me please)

The knowledge that is was Hannibal who had tipped Hobbs off burned at the base of his skull like a brand. From where he sat, socked feet kicked up on his coffee table and whiskey in hand, he mulled over his options.

The first move he should’ve made was go to Jack; at the very least Hannibal would go down for _something_ , and the further investigation into his life, the prying open of the doors Hannibal kept so firmly looked, would hopefully reveal his true nature to his adoring crowd.

But that wasn’t what Will wanted; the very thought of Hannibal rotting in a cell in a garish, prison-issue jumpsuit for the rest of his days had bile rising in his throat; he deserved to suffer, to atone for each and every sin he has ever committed, and to weep at his feet. Hannibal was his and his alone to crack open and scoop out whatever vile thing nestled in his mind and heart—assuming he even still _had_ one. 

Will grinned at the thought, cock twitching from the confines of his corduroys, practically _salivating_ at the thought of the doctor bloodied and beaten by his own hands. Perhaps then, within the last few moments of his life, Hannibal would be humbled when reduced to the basest form of existence: writhing in his own mess and pleading for his life.

Hannibal would be so pretty begging for his own life. Yet, deep down, Will knew Hannibal would never grant him that satisfaction. 

He pressed the heel of his palm against his dick, the subtle ache now a full-blown throb at the mere idea. He used his free hand to undo his zipped, taking his time with easing his half-hard cock out of his boxers and wrapping his fist around himself and slowly pumping. The dryness had frissons of pain sparking behind his eyes in brilliant, fuzzy colours, but he liked the edge of hurt and danger to it.

He twisted his fist on the down stroke, watching with half-lidded eyes as the cock head, red and shiny precum, glimmered in the low light of his living room. He eased further into the chair, spine dipping as he tightened his grip on himself, uncaring of the whiskey that threatened to spill over the lip of his glass. 

Hannibal would be difficult to take down; both broader and taller than Will, made of nothing but thick muscle, yet Will was no stranger to his kind. He had spent his youth bordering on the precipice of gangly and wiry, using the underestimation of his strength to his advantage, and Lecter would be no different; after his display with Hobbs, Hannibal would believe there to be little to no true fight in Will.

Will let out a groan, the sound almost startling him out of his reverie, and he pumped his hips into his fist. The coffee table groaned in protest, heavy wooden legs dragging across the thin carpet it sat on as he dug his heels into the unforgiving glass. Will drowned the noise out, choosing instead to focus on his heavy breathing and the slick noise of his fist on his cock.

There would be a haunting beauty in watching the life flicker out of Hannibal’s eyes, to watch the beast in them, finally free, die knowing it had been bested by his hands; the reign of terror he held over Baltimore finally over in one brilliant press of hands and scrabbling limbs.

And just like that it was finished, white stripes painting his fist and his belly from where his shirt had ridden up. He let out a soft sigh, releasing his cock and watched as it softened against the muscle of his thigh. 

He tossed back his whiskey with an air of finality, wincing at the trail of fire it left in his throat, and stood up, not even bothering to tuck himself back in his pants. Buster flicked his ear in the direction of Will, but made no move to follow as Will trotted over to his room, shedding clothes with each step.

That night, he slept without the faces of dead men haunting his dreams.

 

\--

 

Every step he took was followed by the annoying clack of hooves behind him, echoing off the cracked asphalt of the highway into the inky black darkness around him. A part of him, the small, dream-suppressed part of his mind, knew that in the dead of fall in Baltimore wandering around in nothing but thin cotton undergarments at night should cause at least _some_ discomfort. 

However, his body felt no sensation of cold; the only things filtering into his mind were the stabs of tiny rocks into the soles of his feet and the heavy, warm breath of the stag behind him. He blinked, vision going fuzzy before it disappeared altogether. 

His heart hammered against his chest, sticking to his ribs; his breathing, however, stayed steady and in time with the exhales against his neck. The stag behind him let out a low rumble, before trotting beside him and nudging his shoulder with a surprisingly warm nose. Will took it as the command it was, to hold onto it and let it guide him into the unknown, and he found himself eager to comply. He raised his hand, threading it through the velvet-soft hide, and allowed himself to be led down the road.

They carried on for what felt like miles, Will’s muscles moving of their own accord, sure and smooth. 

“You know,” he started, breaking the eerie hush that fell around them, “you are pretty poor company.”

The stag snuffled in response. Will didn’t know if it was his imagination that the stag sounded offended. 

“Would you at least tell me where we’re going?” No sane person would ask an animal where they were going, whether in a dream or otherwise, but something in him told him this animal was more man than even _he_ was. 

“You should know,” is all the stag responded, voice full of warmth and accented. Will’s hold on the beast slackened in surprise.

“Son of a bitch.”

“You shouldn’t swear.”

“Well given the occasion I think you can let it slide this time, you insufferable asshole.”

The stag let out a deep laugh in response, but carried on beating a steady path down the highway.

 

\--

 

Will let out a soft huff, watching the warm puff of air disappear up into the night. He felt conflicted; genuinely frightened over whatever the Hell had condemned him to walk in the frigid night air halfway to Maryland, but mostly amused at the turn of events.

He would admit that he had never been sound of mind in his life, no man who ever willingly partook in and enjoyed murder ever was, but this was a new level of instability that Will didn’t want to examine.

He looked behind him, and smiled when he saw a distant pair of headlights coming his way. He at least had an option besides walking back home, however slim the chance of someone pulling over for a half-naked, sweaty man standing in the middle of the road in the dead of night. But, he decided to try his luck, and walked over to the shoulder and stuck his thumb out, trying to look as nonthreatening as possible.

He grinned, the movement pulling at wind chapped lips, as the car gradually edged closer and stopped a few feet away from him. Whoever was behind the wheel was obviously not very smart, but Will wouldn’t push his luck by pointing this out to them.

The driver’s side door opened, and a figure stepped out to lean against the door. “Hey, you alright?”

Will lowered his hand and studied the figure as they moved their weight from foot to foot. “I think so.”

“You sure? You are a little underdressed for the weather.” Their voice sounded teasing, and Will blinked, and tilted his head to study the person.

“Do you need a ride into Maryland?”

“No, despite what it looks like I’m going the opposite way,” at the silence that follows, he clears his throat, “Wolf Trap, Virginia.” 

The figure nods, whether to themselves or to Will he doesn’t know. “Alright, come on and get in. Try to leave whatever asphalt that’s embedded in your feet out of my car.”

Will nodded, and made his way over to the passenger’s side door and wrenching it open. The driver had gotten back into their car, and was just doing up their seatbelt when Will had carefully closed his door. 

“You didn’t escape from a mental hospital right?” The person—a woman who Will assumed was in her late twenties, with a brilliant splash of red on her lips—asked. She wasn’t explicitly nervous, but there was a reediness to her voice that had Will wincing in sympathy. 

“No. At least not yet.”

She let out a sharp laugh, and started the car. Will pressed his frozen fingers to the heat blasting out of the vent with a contented rumble. “My name’s Margot. What should I call you? Besides a friend of yours to help you home once we’re in Baltimore, of course.”

“Will.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you Will. Although the circumstances beg to differ.”

“I didn’t expect to stop, and any normal person wouldn’t. So why did you?”

She shrugged, foot gunning the accelerator in a way that had the car purring beneath her. “I’m not exactly what you call ‘normal’.”

Will raised a brow at that, wanting to press the line of questioning further, but decided against it. 

“You can ask you know.”

“A little personal for someone you picked up on the side of a roadway at night, don’t you think?”

“Not really, you know nothing about me so you won’t judge me for the skeletons I have in my closet. Pretty convenient if you ask me.”

“I’ll have you know I have a set hourly rate if you require me to play therapist.”

“What about are your hourly rates for sex?”

Will coughed on the spit he was swallowing, and she turned to give him a wolfish grin. He beat a fist against his chest, and struggled to collect himself. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I’m not,” she scoffed. “But I might consider it.”

“Now I’m starting to think it was a bad idea for me to get into this car, seeing as you are now the dangerous person in this equation.”

“Not dangerous, merely just curious. Those boxers hide a lot less than you think.”

“As much as I’d love to talk about what I’m packing, didn’t you want to get something off your chest?”

“See, now you’ve ruined the mood. Did anyone tell you that you are a terrible guest?”

“All the time, just never usually the ones who pick me up off the side of the road like a stray.”

“Touché.” She murmured.

Will struggled to keep his eyes from rolling at that, and choosing instead to look out the window as the dark shapes of trees sailed by. It was almost nauseating to watch, but he liked the way it grounded him in the present and kept his mind busy.

His ears pricked as he heard music start to softly filter into the car, and he turned to look at Margot. She had her eyebrows drawn together in conversation and lips noiselessly mouthing along to the lyrics. As if sensing his gaze on her, she tore her eyes from the road to meet his. 

“What? Don’t like it?”

“I have no feelings for it either way.”

“Never really did meet a man who wasn’t a fan of Zeppelin, but then again I never pick up strangers off the side of the road.”

“Just focusing on driving. Please.”

At the clipped tone of his voice, she let out a muttered cursed but thankfully complied. Will returned his gaze to the blur of the scenery as it moved past, and couldn’t help but have the feeling he was hurtling towards further instability.

 

\--

 

“Will,” Hannibal intoned, eyebrows climbing to his hairline at the sight of him—visibly dishevelled and shaking—in his lobby, “this isn’t your scheduled session date or time, are you alright?”

Will let out a sharp bark of a laugh, fingers twitching against his jumping thigh muscle. “Obviously I’m not. I wouldn’t be here if everything was alright.”

“I understand you are experiencing some mental distress right now but that is no reason to forget your manners.”

Will’s cheeks flushed, and he felt very much like a child scolded by his father. “I-I’m sorry.”

“You are forgiven.” Something in Lecter’s voice—the way it implied he would _always_ be—had Will risking a glance up to his eyes. He expected to lock eyes with Hannibal, engage in a battle of wills, but found Lecter’s eyes fixed against the hickey on his neck; Will cleared his throat, and he could see the moment Hannibal mentally smoothed his feathers over, returning to the charming, elegant man he presented to the world. “Ah, but I forget myself; please, come in.”

Lecter cleared the doorway and, with a flourish of his arm, invited Will in. Will, the picture of obedience in that moment, entered. He kept his posture curled over in on himself, carefully covering his face with his curls as his mind ran through different scenarios to present himself to lower his defences. 

“Do you have an appointment? I can leave if you need me to,” he trailed off, careful to leave his voice just the slightest bit hopeful.

Lecter pursed his lips, and all but strutted over to his desk to flip through a small, leather-bound book. 

“You are lucky, it appears my one p.m. session has cancelled ahead of time. Take a seat, and I will be with you shortly.”

Will took the offered seat, making a show to let out a soft grunt as he did. The lines of Hannibal’s back stiffened, but he carried on with carefully tucking papers into their appropriate folders and then into a sleek, metal filing cabinet. 

“Rough night?” Hannibal asked; Will practically _grinned_ at the traces of genuine prying leaking out of the carefully constructed mask. 

“I thought we were going to wait for my session to start, Dr. Lecter.” Were Hannibal any other man—and if Will was a few years younger—he would be practically batting his eyes and worrying his lip between teeth at the man; his voice, though, maintained the impish, coy lilt that had sent many a man to their knees.

“Right you are,” the strained quality to Lecter’s voice had Will pinching between his thumb and index finger to keep from outright laughing.

“It doesn’t really pertain to my mental anguish, though,” Will parsed, “so I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Hannibal laughed, the sound warm and content. It had Will’s stomach twisting, and it wasn’t out of desire to see Hannibal beaten and bloody beneath him. Will pushed the feeling aside, more than a little disturbed.

“I met someone in the oddest of ways, and I brought them home.” A lie, were Will to be honest, but he was never one to show ever card held.

“I see,” Hannibal’s voice was surprisingly even, “and how did your night go?”

“I’m not one to kiss and tell, doctor.”

Lecter said nothing, deciding in that moment that whatever he was finally had been done so sufficiently, and made his way over to Will, sitting in the seat across from him and settling his hands in his lap.

“That isn’t why you’re here though.” _Impeccably psychiatry,_ Will thought, eyes going half lidded in boredom. “What happened last night.” An order, not a question, and the firmness of the tone had Will fighting against the desire to squirm where he sat; Lecter sounded exactly like his father does— _did_.

“I had a dream I was walking down the highway towards Maryland led by a giant stag. Nothing special or horrifying. But when I woke up I was actually sleepwalking my way to Maryland in the dead of night, barefoot, wearing nothing but pajamas.” Will didn’t have to fake the sense of mounting fear and uneasiness as he poured himself into Lecter, ever the ready vessel to collect the evil that plagued his mind.

“I understand your distress then. Is this the first time you have ever sleepwalked?”

“A few times when I was a kid, but I never made it out of the house before. Or my dad stopped me.”

Hannibal mulled over this, steepling his fingers against his chin. “Jack had informed me of your childhood, as well as giving me an extensive case file on your past history, and it is safe to say these bouts of sleepwalking occur in times of trauma as well as stress. Your father wasn’t a good role model for you, and you found his body as a teenager; just the way Jack is not a good influence on you and parades you crime scene to crime scene without a care for your mental health.”

“He doesn’t have to care because he hired _you_ for that reason, doctor.” Will leaned forward, eyes sparking dangerously. “And don’t presume to know my childhood or its effects on me based on what you hear from word of mouth or read on paper.”

“What you are suffering from is an offshoot of post-traumatic stress disorder, not uncommon for your line of work,” Hannibal carried on, not even bothering to touch Will’s outburst, “I suggest taking some time off from cases and focusing on your recovery.”

“Jack will never allow it.”

“He doesn’t have to allow it, he would be forced to comply if I were to write a formal report on your progress—and at this point, lack thereof—with ‘forced leave’ as a recommended as a course of action.” At the murderous look on his face, Lecter just smiled. 

“Tell you what,” Will drawled, nerves chaffed at the way Hannibal seemed to think he had everything figured out, “you can _try_ to get Jack to give me time off; in fact, I urge you to. The day that man listens to any advice but his own will be the day Hell would freeze over. While all this is going on I’ll do what I do best: work.”

Hannibal opened his mouth, obviously keen to enter a verbal sparring match with him. Will just shut his eyes and held up a hand, signalling for him to stop. Obviously Hannibal wouldn’t respond to stubbornness in him with anything other than that of his own; Will needed Hannibal pliable, on his side, and lulled into a false sense of security. _Alright, then,_ he thought, jaw clenched, _change of tactic._

“I’m sorry for snapping, Hannibal,” he sighed, opening his eyes to give him his best ‘sad puppy’ look and putting his hands in his lap. “It’s just, I feel so lost. I need someone to anchor me, but I guess snapping at you isn’t going to get you one.”

Hannibal looked skeptical, gauging whether this change in attitude was genuine or not, before he puffed his chest out, looking more than pleased with the development. “Of course, Will. It is common to look for a support group in trying times, and I am more than happy to be a part of yours.”

Will bit his lip, and looked at him from underneath his lashes. “Really, Hannibal? Thank you.”

Hannibal nodded and leaned forward to place a hand on Will’s folded ones. Will absently wondered how many people that hand killed. “I will always be here for you Will; do not hesitate to come to me with anything that troubles you.”

“I am glad,” Will forced himself to blush—an easy feat, considering many points in his life were embarrassing to recall. 

Hannibal leaned back, and ran a cursory hand over his suit. “I have an appointment soon, but would you care for some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Come with me then,” Hannibal stood and waited for Will to do so before he settled a hand on his lower back. Will inwardly twitched. _That_ was new. “I just got a new flavour of jasmine tea, I think you’d enjoy it.”

 _Maybe I should just kill him now, spare me all this tea talk,_ Will thought, before smiling and nodding when Hannibal turned to him, obviously waiting for his response. 

Hannibal smiled warmly, and pressed the hand on the small of his back more firmly against him.

_Or not, Hannibal still did have his uses._

 

\--

 

Normally, Will hated early morning calls to crime scenes; hated the way it interrupted what precious little sleep it had, but also how it forced him way from the warmth of his house into the unforgiving Virginia air. But when Jack had called him, just a hair past five a.m. Will had jumped at the chance and almost snapped his neck in his haste to shower.

His grip on his stirring wheel caused his knuckles to whiten, and his lips were pressed into a line. He needed time out of his headspace, one that was currently full of Hannibal and his ridiculously nice house and tea; he needed to just stop being Will Graham for a little bit. 

He sniffed, ignoring the way that Hannibal’s disgustingly expensive cologne had still stuck to his skin the evening before—Hell, he was sure it _still_ clung to him even now. Maybe he needed to go and hunt again, he took one hand off the wheel to chew absently at his thumbnail. His last hunt had been Hobbs, and it wasn’t as fulfilling as he had hoped, but Will just supposed the legal implications about being witnessed doing it soured the taste of it more than the quickness and manner of it.

He was thankful, though, that the train of thought caused his focus to snap forward, just narrowly hitting one the many large, black SUVs supplied by the FBI. A headache threatened to form at even the thought of all the paperwork that would require. He killed the engine and shoved his keys into his pocket, barely giving the fanfare that followed him as he stepped out and past the barrier any notice.

“Will!” His head did whip around at that, and he almost wished he hadn’t. Beverly was standing a few feet behind him, hands on her hips and hair pulled into a ponytail. “You never got back to me about the football night.”

“Ah,” Will rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, and had the good nature to look sheepish at that, “I am free almost every night so—”

“Hold it!” Price slapped a hand over Zeller’s mouth, the latter looking like he was about to bite his fingers off. “Will what’s that on your neck? Is that a hickey? It looks old too, maybe a few days. You dirty dog.”

Zeller pried Price’s hand off his mouth, and let out a sigh. “Our baby boy is all grown up.”

Beverly’s head turned between the three of them, head whirling with enough force that Will was surprised it didn’t come off. “Graham, did you spend the night with someone? Is that why you couldn’t answer my text?”

“Uh, yes?”

She rushed over to him and swept him up in a hug. “All is forgiven, I completely understand. I’ll take a rain check on our football night in exchange for all of the details.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You can mime it, does that make you feel better?”

Will pretended to mull this over, even going as far to tap his index finger against his chin. “I’ll think about it.”

“If you don’t tell me I can always extract the information out of you. I have older brothers, I know how to get it out of you,” she threatened, voice low.

“As much as I love to see you all getting alone,” Jack bellowed, the vein bulging on his forward looked like it was trying to send out Morse code for ‘get back to work’, “this is an active crime scene, and I expect you all to be professionals about it.”

Price and Zeller looked between each other before shrugging and going off towards the bodies, while Beverly let him go and shrugged. 

“That includes you, Ms. Katz.”

“That’s my cue, see you later Will.”

“Don’t count on it,” he called after her, snorting when she didn’t even hesitate to give him the finger as she left.

“How’re you feeling?” Jack asked, coming to stand beside him.

“Oh not you too, I am not going to tell you what happened.”

Jack blinked at him, clearly unamused. “I don’t care about what or _who_ you do outside of work. I am asking about how you are in there.” Jack made a vague gesture to his head.

“It’s all good.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“No.”

“Nothing that pertains to, I don’t know, sleepwalking?” 

“I like to exercise, what can I say?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but the truth?”

“Look, if you’re thinking this will affect my ability to work, I can tell you here and now: it won’t.”

Jack nodded, whether to himself or to Will he didn’t know or particularly care. “Alright. I trust you.”

“Thank you.” There was an awkward pause. “Want to tell me about what I’m walking into?”

“Room was registered under ‘John Smith’, the bodies were found by a cleaner who came by this morning. He killed them both and strung them up with fishing wire and used the skin on their backs to make wings. He also threw up on the nightstand.”

Will pushed past him and into the room, taking in the scene before him. The bed was crumpled, and Will pursed his lips. 

“You didn’t tell me he slept here.”

“What do you mean?”

“He slept here and tried to cover it. The fold of the bed is all wrong. No crisp and professional lines of a seasoned housekeeper. Also the angle of the vomit looks like he didn’t want to get up and do it, merely lean over.”

Jack murmured something to Price, who quickly set to pressing sheets of adhesive plastic to the sheets. “What else?”

“Bodies are in the prayer position, but I’m guessing you already know that.” His mind was whirring, the synapses of another’s mind firing in him. “Can I get a plastic sheet?”

“Why?” Katz asked, trying not to gag as she scooped some of the vomit into an evidence receptacle. “I see dead bodies almost every day, but vomit gets to me every damn time.”

“I need to run through everything he did. _Everything._ ” 

“Oh god, you’re not gonna vomit too, are you?” Beverly moaned.

“For both of our sakes, I’ll try not to.”

 

\--

 

Will sat fidgeting in Hannibal’s waiting room, for some reason he felt apprehensive about seeing him after how they’d left off his last not-appointment. The way their knees pressed together at Hannibal’s island as they drank tea together was far too intimate for him. The phantom touch on his back flared up in remembrance, and he the heels of his hand into his eyes. 

The fireworks that started behind his eyelids allowed him to concentrate on something else besides Hannibal’s all-encompassing existence; he didn’t know who was consuming who now, and it had fear’s clammy hands clawing at his gut. 

He heard the door open, and he quickly placed his hands in his lap, blinking away the last flecks of pain from his vision. Hannibal smiled down at him, the same annoying one he always wore around Will. Will wanted nothing more than to punch him.

“Come in, I’m sorry for making you wait.”

Will shrugged, rising to wobbly legs. “I didn’t notice it.”

“Doesn’t mean it is still not something I should apologise for. It is rude to be tardy.”

“If you want to martyr yourself over this, I won’t stop you.”

“Ever the gentleman, Will.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” he mused. Hannibal let out a soft laugh in response, and shut the door behind them. 

He waited for them to both sit, and get settled before he began. “How was the past few days for you, by the way? I wasn’t able to be there at the crime scene due to a prior appointment.”

“The usual standard fare; a grisly murder, a seeming unidentifiable killer who always seems to leave pieces of themselves at the scene, Jack’s suffocating hovering.”

“Suffocating? That is quite a heavy word.”

“It fits,” Will said bluntly, not even bothering to disguise his bitterness, “it’s like going to work with a wet blanket wrapped around me as soon as I step out my car. Your meddling didn’t help either.”

“Meddling?” Hannibal looked the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously? You didn’t think I’d be interrogated as soon as he saw me? ‘Why are you sleepwalking, Will? Have you finally become unhinged?’” Will imitated.

“I was merely concerned about you. As is Jack.”

“He isn’t concerned about me as a person, I am a bloodhound to him Hannibal; I’m only important as long as I’m useful.”

“Does Jack remind you of your father?”

Will recoiled, and got up from his seat abruptly; the sudden move caused the chair to go skidding back and almost tip over. Hannibal watched, impassive as ever, like a king observing his court. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You shut me out again Will. That tells me I hit a nerve.”

“And that should tell you to stop prying.”

“Or, keep seeing what I find, and help with the root of your problem.”

“My father did not give me this crazy by being absent and heavy handed, believe it or not.”

“That’s not the point,” Hannibal soothed, and rose from his own chair to place a steadying hand on Will’s shoulder; the touch that was meant to be comforting felt more like a brand. “I think your contention with Jack is because you see him as a father figure, and the only ones you have had in life were not good.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I don’t think I am, but I understand how this might be overwhelming for you. The fact he is unconsciously acting like your father must be due to him thinking you need one for stability’s sake.”

“I don’t understand what this has to do with the case,” Will felt suddenly flustered and lost, he didn’t like the loss of control over the conversation.

“It has everything to do with the case, because it might affect how you work by affecting the dynamic between you.”

“It hasn’t before.”

“You told me yourself that you sleepwalked as a child, is this recent development not a sign that perhaps you are regressing back to the role of child around a forced father figure?”

Will moved his lips soundlessly. His lungs felt like they were on fire and he struggled to get air into him. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“It’s alright if it makes you uncomfortable, Will. This realisation is one that I doubt is very welcome.”

“ _Please.?_ ” The desperation in his voice even had him surprised, and Hannibal was no different. The cold calculation in his eyes gave way to an uncharacteristic softness.

“As you wish. Shall we talk about something else? Perhaps your dogs?”

Will let out a breath, and the tension that had his muscles aching left with it. “I’d like that.”

 

\--

 

“Thank God you’re here,” Jack said, pulling him forward by the crook of his elbow towards their scene. 

“Pun intended?” Price asked.

“Shut up.”

“Right. Sorry.” He looked distinctly uncomfortable, before turning back to where he was cataloguing blood stains.

“He’s upping his game, I think he knows he won’t get away with it due to his carelessness. He is preparing these angels to meet him in Heaven.”

Will shook Jack’s hand off him and shut his eyes. Unwarranted voices rose to answer the questions his mind churned out, both in and outside his mind. “This isn’t a biblical thing, at least in that sense. There’s something we’re missing.”

“Our killer is missing his penis, if that helps,” Zeller said from where he was currently bent over said missing part.

“He’s preparing himself to be an angel. He doesn’t see these kills as them, they didn’t have wings. His own mind is against him at this point, no one here can help him anymore so he is trying to turn to a high power for help by becoming one.” Will swallowed. “This is his way of his accepting his own death.”

“I need more Will, like is he going to kill again? Or will the next body we find be his?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? You just manage to dissect his motives for self-castration. You need to try harder. The answers are there.”

“I can’t see them, I told you. _I. Don’t. Know._ ”

“That’s not good enough, Will. There are lives on the line. We need to know the—”

“The what?” Will barked, patience snapping as soon as he felt the mask fall. “The fucking answers, Jack? You say you see them around here, so look for them your goddamn self. Or, I don’t know, use the fucking rest of the BSU to help you find it like they’re paid to do. I am not the only one working here. Or form your own opinion Jack, a little bit of a radical fucking idea, I know, but try to muster up some brainpower and think about this one yourself.”

Jack merely blinked at him, stunned into silence like those around them. Will returned the expression, before his body rebooted and he turned on his heel and walked off. 

He must have caused Jack to have a small stroke, because the man didn’t even call after him as he left.

 

\--

 

“And so our resident hero returns,” Katz smirked at Will as he entered the lab. “Never thought I’d see the day someone stood up to Jack, especially not you.”

“I’m not proud of what I did.”

“Doesn’t mean _I_ can’t be proud on your behalf. But that wasn’t like you, the rage I saw, that is. Are you alright? I’m your friend Will, I’m here for you no matter what.” She punctuated the statement by grabbing his hand and squeezing gently. 

He turned their linked hands over, looking at the delicate veins on the backs of her hand and absently rubbing a thumb over them. “I’m fine. I was a little stressed, that’s all; we _all_ are.” The lie left a sour taste in his mouth, one he wasn’t used to—regret, his mind told him, for lying to someone he cared about.

He didn’t know how to lightly say he might be coming apart at the seams, barely restraining himself to keep the beast inside tame and content; or even the added stress of the whole Hannibal thing. 

Beverly nodded. “Kinda comes with the job. That’s why our benefits are good. Wouldn’t want use to all die of stress-induced heart attacks.”

“I could use one right now.”

“A heart attack? Or some benefits of the job? ‘Cause I can suggest something to benefit the both of us if you want to meet after work and maybe—”

“As much as I hate to ruin a precious moment between you two. Wait, I take that back, I don’t hate it. Drama keeps me alive,” Price smiled, rows of teeth shown like a piranha staring at its next meal, “I have news, so gather ‘round.”

Price slapped a fat stack of papers onto the bench, and quickly thumbed through them. 

“What is it? Are you resigning? I’ve waited for this day my whole life,” Beverly sighed, she pressed the hand that held Will’s to her heart. Will coughed pointedly, and she blushed and dropped his hand. “Sorry.”

“Hah, you wish, Katz. It’s even better than that; we have a link drawing all our victims together. They’re criminals.”

“You sound a little _too_ pleased with that,” Will remarked.

“Wanted criminals, as in actively sought after,” Price amended.

Beverly sucked in a breath and leaned forward. “Do share their heinous deeds.”

“Our first duo consisted of a rapist and an accessory to the fact, and the solo one’s records are on their way here. The angel thing makes sense now.”

“He think he’s doing God’s work by killing them, he feels righteous as he takes their lives like he is cleansing the Earth. He sees himself as the metaphorical flood.” Will supplied, and immediately a sense of ease fell over him. The amount of kinship he felt with their killer had him excited for them to meet; it was as close to killing himself that he’d get in this lifetime, and he was eager to satisfy that dark urge that bubbled in him.

“Kinda sick, huh? Feeling like that about murdering,” Katz murmured, more than a little uneasy.

“Don’t worry, Bev, I’m sure your record is spick and span, unless you did something horrible when you were young. To which I’d say: tell me immediately.”

“Ha, you wish Price.”

“I do, oh how I do. Maybe then he’d take you off my hands and I can live the rest of my days in peace and quiet.”

Will shifted from where he stood between the two of them, before using their distraction to quietly walk away from them and out the door to leave them to their bickering.

“Even if I was targeted Will would definitely save me. Right, Will?” At the silence that answered she turned to where he was supposed to be. “Son of a bitch.”

“Guess that answers your question,” Price smirked before collecting his papers and turning his back to her. “See you later.”

“I hope not.”

 

\--

 

“Your sleepwalking happened again, and this time you woke up on the roof?” At how Lecter said it, Will flushed all the way to his toes. 

“Yes.”

“In nothing but your underwear.”

“Please stop repeating that part.”

“I am trying to get a good idea as to what exactly happened.”

“Part of me thinks you just want to keep thinking about me in my underwear,” Will muttered.

“Pardon me?”

“I said: you are definitely a great psychiatrist then. Thank you, Dr. Lecter, for being so invested in my health.”

Hannibal said nothing, choosing to gloss over Will’s indiscretion. “What about your case? How is that going?”

“It goes.” Will shrugged. “He’s killing people that are criminals. The presentation as angels is merely an indicator that he thinks he is some divine messenger appointed by a God to ride the lands of evil.”

“That was a very—what do you call it when _I_ do it?—flowery description.”

“You’re rubbing off on me, what can I say?”

“Carry on.”

“Thanks for your permission, I guess. This man, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. He doesn’t want to do these actions but his brain is working against him; it’s—it’s compelling him to do these things. It’s like his brain is playing tricks on him.”

“Why do you feel sorry for him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it is because you can relate to him, or at least the part about his brain playing tricks on him. We often project our own unconscious problems onto others, and you are no different Will.”

“I don’t really like what you’re insinuating.”

“You don’t have to like it, just think about it.” Will got up to pace, and this time Hannibal joined him, careful to stay a few steps behind him. “What I want you to realise is that, unlike him, you do not have to be destroyed by your anxieties; you don’t have to be consumed by them.”

“But I need you to do that.”

“You need support, Will, and we’ve already established I am a part of your support net so that part is inevitable.” Hannibal’s voice wasn’t unkind, but it rubbed Will the wrong way.

Will paused his pacing, choosing stop in front of his favourite selection of books—Russian poetry, a thing that was so pretentious he’d be surprised if Hannibal didn’t have it—and run his fingers over their neatly fixed spines. He lost himself in the stimulation, and how it soothed his frayed nerves, that he almost missed the soft inhales of breath at his neck. 

Will stiffened, and a sense of confusion filled him. “Did you just… smell me?”

“I have a better sense of smell than most people,” Hannibal offered, as if that was a way of explaining the invasion of space.

“And I have a better sense of imagination than others, that doesn’t mean I go prying into the heads of people I know. What the fuck, Hannibal.” He grit out.

“I’m sorry if I offended you in any way.”

“Well, yeah!” Will flailed his arm out, and it knocked against the bookcase.

“Might I suggest changing your aftershave, though?”

“I’m sorry, but right now I don’t really care if it affects your sensitive nostrils, Hannibal.”

“Not for me, but for you,” he soothed, “the harsh chemical scent of it might be affecting your sleeping patterns.”

“I don’t naturally gravitate to cheap aftershave because it reminds me of my father. This isn’t related to my father issues at all, and even if it was, you should ask next time you smell me. It’s creepy.”

“Next time?”

Will’s vision went red, and he actually felt himself raise a hand to wrap around his neck. Instead, Will pressed it against Hannibal’s chest and pushed him away. “I’m leaving.”

“I’m serious about the aftershave, Will. Think about it.”

“If I do it’ll remind me more of how you just _smelt_ me, so I’ll pass, thanks.”

Unruffled as ever, Hannibal nodded. “Goodbye, Will.”

Will grunted in response, much too engrossed in tugging on his jacket.

“I really am sorry.”

“You should’ve opened with that then.”

As he left, Will told himself the sadness on Hannibal’s features was merely a trick of the light.

 

\--

 

The car ride to their suspect’s—Elliot Budish—was the definition of awkward. The entire ride Jack stared resolutely ahead and maintained a stony silence that even had Will squirming in his seat.

Behind him, Price and Zeller were sharing a set of headphones and Beverly sat staring out at the scenery as it passed. It felt almost like a family trip, and Will was stuck in the situation of the scolded wife.

Thankfully, their ride was a short one, and Will found himself in open air and far away from Jack’s’ looming. It was almost like being attached to a rain cloud.

“While we ask questions I want you three to scour the house, anything you find—anything at all that you think can so much put a hair of place on this guy’s head—bag it and photograph it.” Jack murmured, voice low and steady as he prepared to knock.  
Katz and co. nodded in agreement, and Price hefted up as camera in understanding. “For today, I am the paparazzi. I wanted to be one growing up.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but knocked twice; his hand was poised for a third, but the door was wrenched open by a red-eyed woman. He lowered his hand, and smiled at her. “Mrs. Budish?”

“Y-Yes, that’s me.”

“My name is Jack Crawford, I’m with the behavioural sciences unit with the FBI; may we come in?”

“Is this about Elliot?” 

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.”

The woman let out a choked sob in response, but moved to allow them indoors. Jack produced their warrant while Katz, Price and Zeller all fanned out to search the house.

“Do you have some place we can go to talk?” 

“Of course. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No thank you, we’re fine.”

She walked off, and they took that as much of a prompt to follow as any. When they were seated, and Mrs. Budish was holding a steaming mug between two hands, Jack cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Budish, we have reason to believe your husband is behind the recent string of murders.”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected, thumb toying with the rim of her mug, “and please, call me Emma.”

“Ex-husband? His records didn’t say he was divorced.”

“The papers are still going through with the lawyers, dividing of assets and all that.”

“Of course. May I ask why you too are divorcing?”

“His cancer. When we got the diagnosis, the doctor told us he didn’t have much longer left, two years tops. After that he became distant. Elliot started to pull away from me to the point where we didn’t even share the same bed anymore. Some nights he didn’t even come home.” She sighed, and every line on her face was lined with fatigue. “You must think I’m a horrible person to divorce him at a time like this. But I didn’t know what to do, I was at the end of my rope when I filed for it. I even suggested therapy, for either him, me or the both of us; he just didn’t want to do it.”

Will glanced at Jack, and found the man with eyes glazed and looking miles away, before turning back to Emma. “Was your husband ever violent? To you or others?”

“Oh, God no! After we knew about the cancer, and even before, Elliot was an angry guy but he never acted on his feelings. He couldn’t hurt a fly even if he tried.” There was a fondness in her voice, one that didn’t match her strained expression.

“We just want to find him before he hurts himself or someone else, Emma.” Jack soothed, suddenly remembering he was a part of actively investigating Emma. “Is there anywhere you think he might be hiding at? Anything that might’ve stood out to him as a place that’s safe?”

She hesitated, and flicked her gaze to study the wallpaper. “There is one, yes. When Elliot was a kid he fell asleep in his house and didn’t wake up went up in flames. He suffocated to death, and a fireman on scene managed to resuscitate him. He said the fireman had told him he must’ve had a guardian angel looking out for him that day. He’d be there if anything, he even owns the property. Sometimes he takes our boys out there.”

“Katz, Price, Zeller!” He bellowed, causing Will and Emma to jump at the suddenness of it. “Do you have the address of that property?” He asked, turning his attention to a startled Emma.

“Y-Yeah, give me one second.”

“We got him,” Jack muttered to Will, and the words sent a chill up his spine at how much they echoed his own.

 

\--

 

“I’m pretty sure you just broke eight different traffic laws,” Price wheezed as he ran beside Jack, barely able to keep up with Jack’s long strides.

“This is an emergency, they’ll understand,” Jack barked, before coming to a halt before the door of the barn. “You stay here with Katz and Zeller, call for back up and don’t do anything stupid.”

“That’s not exciting.”

“You want to risk the chance of dying?”

“Suddenly I love to make phone calls and all that entails.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but drew his gun. “Ready?”

Will nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack pressed in past the door, disappearing into the darkness, and Will drew his own gun to follow after him.

“You won’t need a gun.”

Will blinked, and holstered it, stepping into the barn after him. “Why not?”

“Look up.”

Will swallowed at the sight of the hanging body above them, skin on the back spread like wings around him. “That’s him.”

“The blood on the crotch of his pants is a dead giveaway.”

“He got his wish, he became an angel. But this—this isn’t satisfying.” Will kicked at the dirt beneath them, watching it rise and disappear in the air, something he wished he could do in this moment. 

“I’ll call for clean-up.” Noticing the taut lines of Will’s back, Jack sighed. “Everything alright?”

“We failed. We couldn’t bring him to justice or even save him from himself. I can’t help but feel like I’m looking into a mirror right now.”

“How is this mirroring you? You’re not a killer, Will.”

Will’s lips twitched, threatening to turn into a smirk. “I killed Hobbs.”

“That was self-defence. That’s different.”

“It mirrors how I could end up.”

“You feel unstable.”

Will let out a laugh, sharp as glass. “I don’t know what thoughts are even mine anymore. I don’t even know if the thoughts and connections I make are even related to the right case.”

“You don’t have to do this alone. You have Alana and I. You have Hannibal.”

“This is not something I want to burden you with.”

“It isn’t a burden, Will. We all care about you.” At the incredulous look Will shot him, he let out a grunt. “I don’t know what it is you want me to say to you, or even if there is something I can say to make it better. But if you want to quit, quit. It isn’t worth losing yourself to this job, trust me, I know what it’s like.”

“A few days ago you were goading me further and further to give you the answers to this case.”

“And I was wrong.” Jack shrugged. “Just do what you think is right.” Without a further word, Jack left him alone in the barn, staring up at the dead man above them.

Will lowered his gaze, and stared at his hands. He could quit, he knew it deep down, and a large part of him was saying he _should_. Whatever little stability he had scrounged by himself over the years was getting lost to figure out just who was the Chesapeake Ripper as he found himself drawn deeper and deeper into his web. Will looked back up, expecting to see the body of Elliot, but found nothing.

He blinked, once, twice, before turning to look next to him. He jerked back when Elliot returned his gaze, eyes unblinking and a ruin of burst blood vessels. The man stood stock still as if waiting for Will to say anything, before dropping to his knees like a marionette with cut strings.

“I-I can see what you are, and I can bring it out of you,” he mumbled, hand on the hem of his pants. “We’re alike, you can pretend all you want, but _I see you_.” 

Will’s breaths punched out of him in startled gasps, and he fumbled for his gun, ready to draw it and fire—but between the space of a blink, Elliot had disappeared from his position at Will’s feet. He was hit with a sudden sense of vertigo at the situation, and whipped his head to see Elliot hanging there as if nothing happened.

Try as he might to ignore it, in the corners of his mind the stag’s laugh echoed.

 

\--

 

He knocked on Jack’s office door, not even bothering to wait for the man to answer before he burst in. Jack didn’t even raise his gaze to him, choosing instead to study the grain of the wooden walls. 

Will took his seat beside Jack, and placed his hands in his lap and hunched forward. “I’m not going anyway until you’re ready to talk.” He shook his head. “Until we’re both ready.”

Jack merely nodded, and leaned his cheek against the palm of his hand. “Might take a while.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good thing I know your patient.”

“When someone works with you, they have to be.”

Jack chuckled and shut his eyes. “Better get comfy, then.”

"Don't worry, I am." Will smiled.

In his mind's eye the smile was mirrored on Hannibal's face, and dozens of others.


End file.
